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CHAPTER ONE

Knight

R0GUE_N3XUS: TRANSFER CONFIRMED. ENCRYPTED CONNECTION ENDS IN FIVE SECONDS. SIGNING OFF.

Lines of code blur on my center monitor as the final transaction completes. Thirty-six hours straight of coding. Now, ghost images linger when I blink. Patterns flash at the edges of my vision. But it’s worth it— seven figures worth it.

The payment notification glows on my phone, and I allow myself a moment to appreciate the sheer number of zeros. Another corporate giant brought to their knees by a few well-placed keystrokes. They never learn to check their back doors.

I transfer ninety percent into long-term storage accounts, watching the numbers tick over. People love to say money can’t buy happiness. Those people have clearly never watched seven figures disappear into an account that technically doesn't exist.

Happiness might not have a price tag, but security absolutely does. And I learned a long time ago that in my line of work, security is worth every stolen cent.

My fingers cramp as I reach for my coffee mug, my hand finding it on instinct. The liquid inside has congealed into something that probably violates biological warfare treaties. If the government knew what was growing in here, they’d classify it as a weapon of mass destruction.

I should take it to the kitchen. Not because I'm going to wash it—the last three mugs can attest to that—but because this one might actually achieve sentience if I leave it here any longer. The last thing I need is my coffee staging a rebellion.

The three monitors cast their familiar blue glow across my workstation as I push back from the desk. Each piece of equipment in here cost more than most people's cars. All of it customized, modified, pushed past what their manufacturers thought possible.

My computers don't try to make small talk. Don't ask what I'm doing this weekend. Don’t make a scene when I forget to turn up for a date. Don't tell me I should get out more. They just do exactly what I tell them to do.

Unlike literally every other aspect of life that involves actual human beings.

My phone lights up with more messages from my brothers. Their fourth attempt at contact today. Because apparently ignoring the first three wasn’t a clear enough message.

Bishop: Call me. Need to discuss something.

Rook: You still breathing in there?

Like the other three messages, I ignore them. But they're family. The only people I trust besides myself, and some days I'm not even sure about me.

Bishop erases lives, rewrites identities so perfectly even the government believes them. Rook? He made problems disappear permanently—at least until he got caught. Turns out, prison orange wasn’t his color, and he has no desire to revisit it.

And me? I make sure none of us exist in systems we don’t want to.

My stomach cramps, reminding me that coffee sludge and coding adrenaline aren’t actually food groups.

Security code followed by a retinal scan, and the reinforced door hisses open. A quiet reminder that I live in a fortress of my own making. Sixteen layers of security between this room and the outside world.

Overkill? Maybe. But, so is the lead lining in the walls and the separate air filtration system.

I learned the hard way that paranoia and survival tend to go hand in hand in my line of work. The same way I learned that people who hire hackers aren't always thrilled when we dig too deep into their systems. The scars from that lesson healed, but the memory keeps me adding new security measures every month.

The pizza box glares at me from the coffee table, judging my life choices. Whatever is inside has probably evolved enough to start their own civilization. Maybe even a rudimentary government.

I should throw it out.

Add it to the already long list of things that aren't going to happen today, right between ‘fix the security cameras’ blind spot’ and ‘remember what sunlight feels like.’

The kitchen counter is a graveyard of takeout containers. Some of them might be old enough to qualify as archaeological finds. I could probably get a research grant to study the evolution of bacterial cultures in my refrigerator.

The only things still edible are the energy drinks, and I'm pretty sure those aren't technically classified as food. They’re more like liquid insomnia with a side of heart palpitations.

My phone is already in my hand, thumbing through contacts for the Thai place. They know my order—Pad Kee Mao, extra chili. They stopped trying to make conversation after the first month. No loyalty cards, no asking about my day, no comments about my odd hours.

Just food in exchange for money, the way commerce should be.

The perfect relationship, in fact—purely transactional, no emotional investment required.

That leaves me with forty minutes until food arrives. Enough time to do something about the fact I'm pretty sure I'm fermenting.

The bathroom mirror confirms I've gone full yeti. Three days of coding has left me looking like something that crawled out of a tech cave. Smelling like it too. My reflection judges me silently, probably plotting another intervention with the kitchen appliances about my life choices. They can get in line behind my brothers.

Hot water helps wash away some of the keyboard-induced stiffness, but my brain keeps spinning through code sequences. Ones and zeros dance behind my closed eyes, an endless stream of data that never quite shuts off.

Sleep deprivation does interesting things to a mind that spends too much time in digital spaces. Reality starts to feel like just another operating system—one with a terrible user interface and too many bugs in the social interaction protocols.

Clean, dressed, marginally more human-looking, I slip my phone and gun into their usual places. The Glock's weight against my back is as familiar as the phone in my pocket—both just as essential tools in their own way as my computer systems.

I learned a long time ago that some problems can’t be solved with code alone.

The elevator responds to my fingerprint, its quiet hum the only sound as it descends. Three floors, all mine, sealed off from the world. The stair access has been permanently blocked since I bought the place.

No one gets in unless I allow it, and I never allow it.

People complicate things. They ask questions, want explanations, expect you to remember their names and birthdays and favorite colors. Computers just need the right commands.

The delivery guy barely looks at me as he hands over the bag. New guy. They usually are. High turnover in these jobs, which suits me fine.

It’s harder to establish patterns that way. Harder to be predictable. Harder to be found.

He's already thumbing through his next orders before I close the door. Perfect. The less eye contact, the better.

Human interaction accomplished for the month.

Back upstairs, steam rises from the container as I set out the food, while my stomach reminds me that coffee and spite aren't proper nutrition. The first bite of noodles burns like digital warfare through my system. I always forget how serious they are about extra spicy . The second bite is better. By the third, I can almost feel my brain rebooting, coming back online with each spicy hit of endorphins.

When I’m done, the empty container joins its siblings on the counter. I should clean up. Maybe even tackle whatever is growing in the fridge. I’ll add that to the list of things normal people do, somewhere in between ‘maintain a regular sleep schedule’ and ‘pretend to care about other people's Instagram stories.’

My workstation beckons, monitors glowing with familiar promise, but sleep pulls at my eyes.

My phone buzzes with another message from Bishop—probably wondering why I haven't answered the first four.

But I’m busy. I have to get back to work. Back to coding. Back to looking through all the things people think they can hide in their computer files. The digital world doesn’t sleep, and neither do I. Not when there are systems to break and secrets to uncover.

Just me and my computers. No distractions. No people. No mistakes.

Perfect.